


The Love of Dean Winchester's Life

by MumblingSage



Category: Doctor Who, Supernatural, Superwho - Fandom
Genre: Crack, Humor, M/M, Superwho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 12:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MumblingSage/pseuds/MumblingSage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the Doctor Who Episode “The Doctor’s Wife”. Dean and Sam’s life takes a turn for the weirder when the soul of the Impala is transplanted in the body of a man named Jimmy Novak. Crackiness and schmoop ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: While the actual tossing and chopping were my effort, the ingredients of this salad belong variously to the creators of Supernatural and Doctor Who, and there are several direct or modified quotes from scripts by Doctor Who writers—not least of all Neil Gaiman. I’m close to blasphemy, here. I might be a semi-employed college student who makes spending money off writing, but I’m receiving no income from this one, just the pleasure of playing with other people’s toys.
> 
> Author’s notes: First, I picture this taking place in a sort of alternate timeline season 3. Clearly the boys haven’t met Jimmy Novak or Cas yet. The airing status of Doctor Who episodes was figured accordingly. Season 3 ended May 15, 2008, and Silence in the Library aired about two weeks later (all dates from Wikipedia).
> 
> Secondly, I don’t know much about Pontiac, Illinois, so my apologies to all 11,000 inhabitants of for what I’ve got wrong. The Route 66 museum does exist according to the internet. Whether or not there is a mall, with or without a Victoria’s Secret, I do not know. I’m not even sure it has many alleys a TARDIS would fit in. If I ever pass through and see there aren’t, I’ll be terribly embarrassed.
> 
> As to the probability of an Doctor Who convention in a rather small town…well, this is the series that gave us a full hotel of dedicated fans for a book series from a defunct publisher. Anything is possible with the power of fandom.

Dean didn't even look up from the dashboard as Sam ducked into the front seat, precariously balancing fast-food cartons. He growled, "You better've got the pie," but his heart didn't seem into it. 

Sam's blood went cold. "What's wrong?"

Dean didn't even deny anything being wrong, which must be the worst sign of all. He turned the keys in the ignition with the borderline-wild air of someone who had tried that far too many times already, and...nothing happened. Not even a husky growl of machinery. They might as well have been in a Cozy Coupe for all the real-car action going on. 

"That's not supposed to be happening," Sam said.

"Damn right it's not." Dean slammed his hand against the wheel. "It's like..." His words trailed off. Dean could rebuild the Impala from scrap metal if necessary, but he couldn't find a metaphor for what was wrong with her now. "That's impossible," he muttered.

Sam was about to ask if maybe they were out of gas, although he knew that wasn't the problem, when a man's voice called across the parking lot,

"Hey! It's you!" 

The brothers' heads turned in the direction of the voice in time to see its owner--a weedy-looking guy with messy hair and brilliant blue eyes, wearing a suit that would fit better in a tax accountant's office than on this side of town—running towards them on legs that didn't seem to work quite right. He stumbled the last few feet and grasped the handle of the Impala's door, leaning against the open window.

"It's you," he breathed as his eyes met Dean's. 

Sam tried to remember anybody they knew—or Dean knew, at least—in Pontiac, Illinois. Nothing came up. This guy looked pretty memorable, too. But, if the way he was staring into Dean's eyes was any indication, he sure thought he knew them. 

"Sorry, buddy—" Dean started. 

"Jimmy! Oh, for God's sake—leave those people alone!" The area around the Impala was getting positively crowded. Now a blond woman was pulling at Jimmy's arm. She looked about two parts waif to one part soccer mom, and something about her red-rimmed green eyes announced 'I'm at the end of my rope' as clearly as if she'd said the words aloud. Jimmy didn't seem to notice her existence, even when she seized a handful of his suit jacket and pulled. To be fair, he didn't seem particularly sharp to the existence of anything not named Dean Winchester.

"I'm sorry." The woman aimed her words to Sam, probably because Dean was now returning Jimmy's intent regard. "I swear, I looked away for one minute, and then he was gone—"

"Look at you," Jimmy said. "Goodbye!" He frowned. "No, not goodbye. What's the other one? It's hard being polite, isn't it?" He shrugged, then stuck his head through the window to kiss Dean full on the lips.

The woman made a choked shrieking sound and fell back. It was just as well, because she could never have dislodged Jimmy now. Dean's hand had slipped around the back of his head, and for a moment Sam thought his brother might break the man's neck—a jury would never convict him—but no…no. Just no. 

Maybe Jimmy wasn't the crazy one. Maybe Sam was currently tucked cozily in a mental ward somewhere, and this was all a hallucination. Maybe everything was—ghosts, demons, Hunters. All some horrible, insane dream. Maybe his entire life was a lie. 

Because there was no way his brother was kissing the man back.

"I'm so sorry," the woman was whispering. "He's just…"

"Hey, look, uh…" Sam got out of the car and came around to her side. "Can you tell me what's happening?"

She wrung her hands, then released them suddenly, holding them out in a gesture she obviously hoped would communicate something. End of my rope came through loud and clear. "I'm Amelia Novak," she said. "Jimmy's my husband. He's a good man, loves me, loves his daughter, loves God, never had a wild day in his life…He sells ad space for God's sake!" 

"And then…?" Sam asked because there's always a 'and then' to these things. Currently one was locking lips with his brother through a car window.

Do. Not. Think of that. Not now.

"He's completely off his head," Amelia said. "He woke up this morning like...it's not him anymore. He's been running wild, looking for someone."

"Someone?" 

She looked over his shoulder, which was more than Sam dared attempt at this point. "His driver."

"Driver? Like, a chauffeur or something?"

"I don't know, okay? But even that wouldn't make any sense. It's not like our family owns a limo or anything. We're normal people."

"Right," Sam said soothingly. 

A wet sound made him turn around against his better judgment to see that Dean and Jimmy Novak had finally disengaged.

"Oh, but now you're angry," Jimmy said.

Damn straight, Sam thought.

"No you're not." Jimmy frowned. "You'll be angry, though. The candy wrappers will make you angry."

"Sorry?" Dean said. "What? Wrappers—"

"Your freckles are hilarious!" Jimmy made a gesture that was less like pinching Dean's cheeks than grabbing a handful of skin and pulling it towards him for closer study. 

"Sam? Lady? What's going on?"

Now he asked. "We're not sure," Sam called. "This is Amelia Novak, and that's Jimmy. Normal guy, until this morning—"

"Yeah, a little less normal now!" 

Jimmy released Dean's cheek, but before anyone could breathe a sigh of relief he mused aloud, "You know what's better than kissing?"

Amelia Novak buried her face in her hands. 

"Biting! Like kissing. Only there's a winner—"

"Okay then." Dean slid along the Impala's front seat until he was out of reach from the window—but he could have done that a little faster, Sam thought. And the way he looked at Jimmy showed that only half the possible plans running through his head involved staking the guy. 

The other half—no. That wasn't happening. Maybe there were vapors floating over Pontiac, driving usually steady men—like Jimmy Novak, or Sam or Dean Winchester—completely insane. But not that. Dean might occasionally confuse reality and porn, but never at a time like this.

"But get this," he said, usually a good bid to catch Dean's attention. "Amelia says he was running around town, searching for his driver."

"Okay." Dean looked between them, the heat of his gaze cooling somewhat. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It's you," Jimmy said. A note of frustration had crept into his voice, but he also still sounded as excited as a kid at a candy store with free samples, and the combination was beyond unnerving. 

"What? I don't understand. Who am I supposed to be? And who the hell are you?" 

Jimmy's face fell. "You really don't know me? Just because he put me in here?"

"Nobody's put you anywhere, pal. Yet," Dean added, perhaps at a belated thought of cozy locked wards. Maybe he was wondering if he should get a neighboring room. Sam could get one across the hall and they'd live happily ever after, safe in the thought that none of this really counted.

"In here." Jimmy pointed to his chest. "They put me in here. I'm the… What do you call me? We move around. You carve your name on me and cram my parts with little plastic boxes and men."

The expression dawning on Dean's face wavered between ecstasy and horror.

"I go—" Jimmy pursed his lips and released the beautiful, contented growl of a muscle car engine. 

"The Impala?" Dean said.

"Yes, that's it! Name's are funny like that. But see, I knew you'd know me! We knew each other from the moment we met. It was a used car lot. He was going to buy that fat, slow VW. You convinced him otherwise." He winked at Dean conspiratorially.

Dean was back to looking confused. "I what?"

Jimmy frowned. "Maybe you haven't done that yet. Except you have. But you haven't-yet. They make things so complicated, don't they? Dragging you through time, and then the tricky one put me in here—"

"Okay. Well." Dean looked down at the Impala's dashboard, then back to Jimmy. "We'll figure this out. We'll fix this. You've got to get back in here somehow."

"Dean," Sam said, "is what's happening really what I think is happening? He's—"

"Well." Dean stepped out of the Impala and nodded to Amelia, almost apologetically. "This is, well, the Impala. Except she's—he's a man. He's a man and he's the Impala."

"He's the Impala," Sam said.

"And he's a man. He's a man and he's the Impala."

"Dean. I, uh, want you to know you're my brother and I'd never—if you have anything you want to tell me, it doesn't matter, after everything we've been through I don’t care if you—"

"Shut up, it's not like that! So look—" Dean turned to Jimmy, or the thing currently inside Jimmy's body. Except it was more than a thing. It was the most important object in the world. It was home. 

Except it was also a youngish guy with bed hair and huge blue eyes. This was getting awkward.

"You're going to have to come with us," Dean said. "Do you, uh, have a name?"

"Over forty years, and finally someone asks."

"What do we call you?"

"You know." He smiled. 

Dean tugged at his collar as if it was suddenly too tight. "Really. What do I call you?"

"Really."

He sighed. "All right, then. You're going to have to come with us, Baby."

He shot a look at Sam. "Still, shut up."

#

In an alley on the far side of Pontiac, Illinois, the wind blew a colorful collection of candy wrappers—at least half of them the sunny yellow signifying banana—against the blue sides of a police box.

#

Sam accepted being demoted to the back seat with surprising grace. Upon reflection, Dean realized he should have expected nothing less from his brother. Sam always tried to be polite, and it would be particularly special breed of rudeness that wouldn’t let a car take shotgun in his own front seat.

Dean glanced sidelong at the Impala (as he now tried to mentally address it—“Baby” was just too…too much right now), who was inspecting his dashboard with a blandly polite expression.

“It could be less dusty,” the Impala said.

“We’re on to criticisms already? This week we’ve been a little too busy tracking down the remains of a houseful of ghosts to whip out the PineSol.” In the rearview mirror, he can see Sam wrinkling his nose. Victorian hair art has to be one of the worst crafts ever, judging by both pain-in-the-ass haunting potential and sheer morbid grossness. If the little old lady ever figured out what had been stolen from her attic in the break-in and then burned down the alley, she’d probably even be grateful.

The Impala (also known variously as Jimmy Novak and “Baby”) sat back, raising his hands. “All right. Just something to remember when you get the chance.”

“Yeah. Who knows when that’ll be.” He took the cheeseburger from the greasy box beside him and enjoyed a moment of pure bliss. Better than he’d have expected—given how this day was going so far, he wouldn’t have been surprise if one of the pickles had suddenly turned into a frog and hopped out from between his teeth.

Damn Tricksters.

The Impala was watching him, and mimicked the movements of his throat as he swallowed. The gesture was oddly touching and pitiful. Dean found himself holding out the rest of the burger, saying, “Want a bite?”

The Impala grinned like a little kid with rich relatives at a birthday party. He hadn’t quite seemed to master more subtle ways of expressing happiness yet; when he saw something he liked it was Christmas morning every time. 

Or maybe he just saw a lot to be cheery about.

“Thanks.” He took the burger and raised it to his mouth. “I’ve always wondered what these tasted like. You always seemed to enjoy them.”

“You saw that? Were you even around…” He made a vague gesture, capturing at various points the steering wheel, the engine beyond it, the man sitting beside him. 

“I was in here, yeah. Of course I was.” Now he looked hurt Dean hadn’t seemed to realize that. And it wasn’t as if he’d never suspected there was something there, something more to this car than leather and metal and gasoline. But to admit it aloud was…a bit much, even for him. 

Even this morning, he’d choked back the words It’s like the soul of this car is gone, even though that’s what he’d really felt, even though in hindsight that looked like exactly what had happened.

Damn Tricksters, again.

Before he could start an awkward apology, Jimmy’s teeth sliced through the sesame-seed bun and his eyes rolled back in pleasure. Sam shifted awkwardly in the backseat at the ensuing moan.

“They are good. I’m…” Ketchup-streaked teeth flashed in yet another Christmas Day grin. “So happy.”

Happy because of cheeseburgers? A treacherous part of Dean announced that it had found its soulmate. He pushed it aside. 

“So happy for all of this…so glad to be…” He frowned. “What’s the word? Words are so tricky. This one’s big. Sad.”

“Even though you’re happy about it?” Sam asked. 

“Maybe I won’t always be.” 

“Well, speaking of sad—” Dean pointed across the parking lot, where Amelia Novak was leaving the motel diner. The cup of coffee Sam had encouraged her to get made some difference; she looked less like a miserable ghost and more like a miserable woman. 

“We promised her she’d get her husband back,” the Impala said. “After all, we have to return me—” He tapped the steering wheel almost reluctantly, as if afraid it would bite. 

“Especially if we ever plan to drive out of Pontiac,” Sam said. 

“Is it going to be hard?” Dean asked. “Becoming a machine again after you’ve walked around, tasted a few cheeseburgers…” 

That’s not all he’s tasted, the treacherous part of him observed in a prim, almost Sam-esque voice. A second part revealed its treachery—though less primness—by reflecting on how exactly one might win at biting, and whether losing would necessarily be so bad.

“It’ll be okay. At least I’ll have memories.” Jimmy’s teeth tore off another bite of cheeseburger. “As many as I can make.”

“Will Jimmy have any memories?” Sam asked. He avoided meeting Dean’s eyes. Well, yeah, there were a few memories that would be hard on the poor guy when he came back to himself. Dean could admit that. 

“I’m not sure. He seems to be sleeping in here.” The Impala patted a narrow shoulder beneath the suit jacket with much less trepidation than he’d touched his own steering wheel with. 

“Why are you in him, anyway?” Dean asked. “I mean, no offense, but I expected—if I ever expected anything like this—that you’d be more…” With his mouth currently at a loss, his hands supplied the description, tracing a graceful and very full figure in the air.

“I didn’t have feelings one way or the other,” the Impala replied. “It wasn’t my choice to take this man’s form, though. Do you mind it?”

“No,” Dean said—not quickly enough, by the Impala’s expression, or a little too quickly by Sam’s. 

“I mean, really,” he added. “It’s cool enough that you’re here, that we can talk to you, it’s not like it matters whether—” Except none of that was what he really meant at all. Damn it. He couldn’t even blame this one on the Trickster.

“I like your hair,” he said to the dashboard.

“You do?” the Impala asked, running a hand over coal-dark spikes of it.

“Yeah. It’s what I expected. I always knew you’d be a brunette.”

“Thanks!”

“No problem.” Then, since he was being thanked for something he hadn’t meant as a compliment, he decided to give a real compliment too. “Your eyes are nice, too. Good shade of blue. Vibrant. Not what I’d have expected, but…nice.”

He caught Sam staring at him in the rearview mirror, incredulously. No, worse. All to credulously. Sam might not want to believe what he was hearing, but he did believe it. 

But come on—surely he’d admit the Impala deserved some friendliness after all it had been through. And that was all. Dean was just being friendly. 

The way the Impala had gone for a kiss when they’d just met was probably confusing everybody. But it wasn’t like he was going to fight off a scrawny, cute little crazy guy, was it? Cute in the sense of being little and fragile and someone Dean could probably break by accident while trying to wrestle out of his arms, of course. Anyway, it was just a kiss. Not torture.

Why was everybody making such a big deal of it?

“Um. So anyway,” Sam said, “We should get moving if we’re going to find the Trickster. We’re not going anywhere where until…um…Baby is back in her rightful place, and we’ve already checked out from the hotel.” He winced. “Thank God we didn’t move to a metered space.”

It was good to have something to be grateful for as they walked over, around, and across Pontiac for the next four hours.


	2. Chapter 2

The candy wrappers did indeed make Dean angry. Their gaudy colors. The rustling sound as they blew in the wind. The sweet scent hanging over them. Their sheer numbers, showing just how much the Trickster had been indulging his sweet tooth while they tramped around town looking for him. 

Another gust of wind sent a sticky, rustling rainbow piling up against the blue panels of a…

“Police Box,” Sam read. “Pull to open.”

“So do we…pull?” Dean reached for the wooden stake hidden inside his jacket, but Sam started walking around the police box with a distant look on his face. The Impala followed him with a more curious expression.

“Guys?” Dean called. “Kinda hunting a Trickster here? Really, what the hell? It’s just a police box?”

“I know this box,” Sam said. 

“That’s…special. Where from?”

The Impala ran a hand down the box’s blue paneling. “It seems familiar to me, too.”

“You remembered the candy wrappers, too. So were you…created here or something?” The thought of the Impala’s soul being created, by the Trickster, as just another example of his sick jokes made something twist in Dean’s chest. This was more than some stupid game. The thought of it made him want to pull those blue doors open and step in, stake ready. But Sam was currently standing in front of the doors with an expression like a worshipper at a tabernacle.

“What kind of history do you and this box have, exactly?” Dean asked.

Sam shook his head like he was coming out of a dream. “It was…little kid stuff. There was this—oh, God.”

“I think it’s like me,” the Impala said, rapping the police box’s frame. “We both go places. What’s the word…vehicles?”

“But it’s a box.”

“In the show, it wasn’t.” Sam shook his head again, this time more firmly. As if trying to deny the evidence in front of him. “Christ, who’d have thought he’d be a fan too?”

“And just how do I resemble a means of keeping oneself cool?” asked the figure who just then burst from the police box’s door. The tone was all too cheerful and all too familiar. 

The Trickster stood grinning, even as he adjusted the very colorful and absurdly long scarf around his neck. Its fringe dragged among the candy wrappers on the ground, which was no mean feat even considering he wasn’t the tallest son-of-a-bitch in the world. 

“Care for a jelly baby?” he asked. “Too bad, because I left them in the pool room. Along with some bikini-clad additions that defiantly would not fit in the family-show slot. But that’s life, isn’t it?”

“Did you steal the TARDIS?” Sam asked, and for a moment, Dean half expected him to reach out for the stake he held and finish the Trickster off himself. 

The Trickster looked momentarily disappointed. “Really, kid, what are you, twelve? I hate to disappoint, but it’s not the real deal. Just some homemade arts and crafts. A beauty, though.” He looked back at the police box/TARDIS/whatever and nodded approvingly. “I’m breaking MO for a day. Less pleasantly ironic but unpleasantly gruesome death, more…magic and adventure. There’s a fan convention in town today, you see. So I thought I’d join in. The hotel bar is currently on the moon, which unfortunately wiped out more of my potential audience then I’d realized. Not literally wiped them out,” he added hastily, as Dean took a step forward with the stake. “They’ve got oxygen, and airlock, everything. And they’ll have a real thrill when the rhinos arrive.

“For those still earthbound, let’s just say the mannequins at mall just outside of town will be putting on a show. And not all the Cybermen are cosplayers.” He winked. “I was going to have a go at painting the town with BAD WOLF, but a surprising number of pimply-faced college students beat me to it.”

Well, that explained the weird words they’d been seeing everywhere in their search for the Trickster. Come to think of it, Sam had reacted to those pretty oddly, too—nodding and laughing quietly to himself as if there was some inside joke.

“It’s all completely harmless,” the Trickster said. “I even left the statues and the shadows alone. I’m taking a vacation, boys. Except then I heard my old friends the Winchesters were in town, and…”

“You couldn’t resist screwing with us,” Dean said.

“In a manner of speaking.” The Trickster made a not-entirely-mocking half-bow in the Impala’s direction. “Pleasure to see you in the flesh, so to speak.”

“So what’s up with that?” Sam asked. “How does bringing the Impala to life have anything to do with classic British sci-fi shows?”

“Ah. It’s an episode that hasn’t aired yet.” The Trickster winked. “Early 2011. Good times.”

“Time…you’re joking,” Sam said, eyes narrowed. “Because it’s a time-travel show, right? But time travel’s just from shows and movies.”

“Like Back to the Future,” Dean said, glad they were finally on familiar ground. “Star Trek IV.” See, you didn’t have to be British to time travel.

“Sam, Sam, Sam,” the Trickster said. “You really think that’s beyond me? Aren’t you forgetting a certain Tuesday?”

And yeah, Sam was defiantly ready to stake him now. The Trickster saw it, backing up against the TARDIS with his hands raised.

“Sorry, inappropriate of me to remind you of that on a day when we should all be having some fun, relaxing. Seriously, Sam. If you won’t be nice for the sake of keeping the peace, I’m warning you—my last words, if they happen to come today, will have to do with the identity of a certain River Song.” 

Sam backed down, but looked more confused than anything.

“Oh. Has Silence in the Library aired yet?” The Trickster frowned. “Oh. Not just yet. Looks like I’ve spoiled you already.

“But really, guys, this is supposed to be a nice thing. In the episode, our hero got to spend some time with a very old friend in a brand new way. So today, our heroes get to spend some time with a close friend in the flesh.” He smiled at them all, benevolently as a seraph. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“Yeah,” Dean drawled. “Really kind of you.”

The Impala’s face fell at his sarcastic tone, and he added quickly, “Not that I’m not glad to have some face to face time, but getting it from you is just a little rich. And even so, you’re still being a dick. Think of what Jimmy Novak’s wife had to wake up to this morning. Why’d you pick on him, anyway? What did he do to get on your bad side?” Unless this was the Trickster’s good side. Which just didn’t bear thinking of right now.

“Jimmy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And was the right person. Mostly that. It’s a whole bunch of technical stuff you guys wouldn’t understand even after I explained it—a little wibbly wobbly,” he said with a wink at Sam, “and a lot to do with destiny and bloodlines—but long story short, the next best match after James Novak here would be a nine year old girl.”

Dean winced. Then once more considered staking the Trickster, even though this seemed not to be his fault this time. Except for the mental image. Then he considered, briefly, staking his own eyes out.

“It’s not like you mind that much, is it?” He flicked the end of his striped scarf between Dean and the Impala in Jimmy’s body. “Today’s a day for us all to relax a little, Dean-o. Open some boundaries a little. Acknowledge what lies beyond them. I mean, if I can admit my fascination with a cheesy show divided between space soap opera on the one hand and crappy special effects, surely you can accept—”

“You talk an awful lot when you fangirl, don’t you?” Dean asked. 

“Or stay repressed, it’s not like it matters to me either way. Honestly,” the Trickster said to Sam, “ever feel like your lady-killer brother is a Harkness without all the best parts?”

“Does everything you say have to be a reference?” Sam asked with an expression familiar to Dean from the last time he’d tried to explain the plot arcs of Doctor Sexy, M.D. There were levels of fangirl, and Sam was not on the same level as the Trickster. 

“So shoot me,” that creature was now muttering. “I’ve got them bottled up from years, nobody to talk to who appreciated them. Now…” He wrapped another length of that god-awful scarf around his neck, enough to take a few steps across the alley. “Here’s how it’ll be. Your Baby will be inside our lovely volunteer from the audience, Mr. Novak, for twenty four hours total. This little joke started around nine thirty this morning. It’s currently a little past three. What are you going to do for the next eighteen hours?”

Sam and Dean turned to the Impala, who looked at his feet and said quietly, “I’m not sure. What do you want to do?”

“We’ll pass on the fan convention, thanks,” Dean said. “What else is there to do in Pontiac?”

“There was that sign,” Sam said in his trying-too-hard-to-be-helpful voice. “For the Route 66 Museum.”

“I think I’ve seen enough of roads, thanks,” the Impala said. “And I’ll see them again—right? What happens to me when the twenty four hours is up?”

He aimed the question to the Trickster, but the door of the TARDIS was already closing. It didn’t even slam on the end of the scarf, which would have made four whole hours of walking worthwhile. 

Sam was staring at it thoughtfully when a light went on behind his eyes. He had an idea, and by the way the corners of his mouth were trending it wasn’t entirely a happy one.

“So look, I know the Trickster says nobody is going to get hurt today—but those mannequins at the mall aren’t going to be totally benign. Not if he’s true to the spirit of the thing.” His eyes ran over the lines of the TARDIS. “And he seems to be.”

“So what are you saying? We…”

“All those mannequins,” Sam said. “J.C. Penny. Abercrombie and Fitch. Victoria’s Secret.”

“We have to help those people,” Dean said.

“We’re going to go on a hunt?” the Impala asked.

“If you don’t want—” He turned to see the Impala grinning so hard Jimmy Novak’s sharp nose was wrinkling. 

“I would love to go on a hunt with you,” he said.

Sam smiled back. “Then let’s get going! After all,” he added as the smile faded, “the mall’s on the other side of town. We’ve got a lot of walking to do.” 

As they rounded the corner, a bizarre sound come from the alley: a mechanical wheeze, like a vulture with pneumonia, as imitated by a roller coaster. Beside Dean, Sam sighed—a little sadly, and a little fondly.

“Fangirl,” Dean said.

“He does not in any way resemble a means of keeping oneself cool,” the Impala announced. They looked back at him. He shrugged. “If anything, that’s got to be the opposite of cool.”

“Good one, man.” Dean nodded approvingly. 

“Shut up,” Sam told them. “You’ll understand one day.”

“Maybe we will,” the Impala said, all trace of humor vanished.

#

Sam managed to convince a girl in the dressing rooms at Abercrombie and Fitch that no, the headless plastic things closing in on her were not cosplayers—why cosplay from that episode, anyway—and broke short their introductions with a “Nice to meet you, Sadie—run for your life!”

He got an invitation to her room at the convention hotel for it, so that was something. 

Saving the innocent victims at Victoria’s Secret was all Dean ever hoped it could be—and there were some tense moments when he had to break free of the embrace of a blank-faced golden woman in a lacy negligee—but his favorite part was joining the Impala in beating back the autons with the broken limbs of their defeated comrades. Baby was all the warrior he imagined. When they stood back-to-back, facing the mannequin population of Pontiac, Illinois, everything felt right. Together, they could save the world.

Even if supposedly no one was in any real danger today. Especially if nobody was in any real danger today. It was a break, a vacation, a day off for the heroes. But tomorrow would come, and they’d still be there—in whatever form—and they’d be ready.

It was worth everything, even the inevitable bruises, even the confusion, even four hours of slogging around looking for the goddamned Trickster, to really know that. To know he knew it. 

“Is this what it’s like for you every day?” the Impala asked as they trudged home at the end of an evening of mannequin bashing. “Running around? Fighting? Saving people?”

“Pretty much.”

“It’s awesome,” he said.

Dean put an arm around the Impala’s shoulders. “Welcome to the family business, Baby.”

#

Sam didn’t take Sadie up on her offer, but he did go down to the site of the hotel bar—or the site where it had been until eleven this morning, and the probable site of its eventual reappearance—“Just to check things out,” he said. There was nothing to check out. “I’ll probably be back late,” he added. Quite deliberately.

“Sure you’re not going to pick up any convention-goers?” Dean asked. He was sprawled on one of the beds—they’d had to check back into the hotel for the night, which might’ve caused a weird scene if the clerk hadn’t been distracted by the news of a disappearing bar and some giant practical joke at the local mall—and the Impala lay on the other, not asleep but looking inches from it. A combination of fresh air, walking, and fighting off autons seemed to have done the poor guy in. 

But just then, Sam and the Impala exchanged glances with each other, and Jimmy Novak’s head tilted almost imperceptibly. As if he had seen and agreed to some hidden message.

Whatever. Dean lay back down. The day’s activities were starting to tell on him, too. “Hey, Baby. Think you’re going to be all right on your own for an hour? I’m exhausted.”

Suddenly the Impala was perched on the bed beside him, peering at him with wide blue eyes. “You’re going to sleep?”

“Just a little nap. Okay?”

“Can I watch?”

“Uh…if you want.”

“I’ve never seen it happen,” he continued, as if in explanation. “I’ve felt it…you and Sam falling asleep on my seats. Going away, and then coming back after a bit. Leaving your bodies there…defenseless.” He frowned. “Except not defenseless, because you’re with me. But I always wondered what that would look like. You, letting yourself become defenseless. But not defenseless. Does that make any sense?”

“Not really. But go ahead, I don’t mind if you see me sleep. Heck, I’ve probably drooled all over your leather a few times.”

“Sixteen,” the Impala said. “You’ve grown out of it, mostly. Sam still does sometimes. You should put a napkin under him or something.”

“I’ll remember that.” He closed his eyes, and though the weight remained on the bed beside him, he didn’t mind. It felt…familiar, even though it was entirely new. And comforting. As if he was somehow locked away from the world, not becoming defenseless at all.


	3. Chapter 3

When he woke up forty minutes later, he was alone in the room. Whatever Sam was doing, it was taking him an awfully long time. As for the Impala—Dean felt oddly betrayed to see he’d left him. But then, watching somebody sleep for forty minutes couldn’t be that interesting.

A shadow moved in front of the motel room window, the silhouette of a figure that was becoming familiar after only a day. Dean got up, smoothing the worst of the wrinkles from his slept-in clothes, and went outside.

The Impala—the car, that is—was parked beneath a streetlight glowing orangely in the dusk, its doors and trunk all open. The Impala—the man—was walking around it, running his hands over chrome, rubber, and leather, inspecting everything, studying it as if there’d be a test on Monday. 

Dean joined him. “Hey.”

“Oh. Hello.” He didn’t look up from a close inspection of the back seat ashtray. He reached out and jiggled something—the toy soldier stuck in there. The Impala chuckled softly. “I always wondered what this would feel like from the outside.”

“Does it bother you?” Dean remembered when Sam had first stuck the toy there, and how irritated he’d been. Not that the soldier itself was a big deal, but the fact that it was there permanently, despite all his best efforts to pull, wiggle, and/or chisel it out, had galled him. He hadn’t considered how it might feel to be the one whose ashtray it had now become part of. 

“It itched a little, at first. Not literally. But you get the idea.” As if to illustrate, the Impala rolled up one of Jimmy Novak’s sleeves and scratched the arm idly. “But now I’m used to it. I’d miss it if it came out. Same with the Legos.”

“Good. I was going to apologize for those next. But…um, if I don’t have to…thanks.”

He chuckled again. Now his fingers ran over another part of the car, pointing, moving—Dean realized he was tracing the initials they’d carved into the Impala years ago. S.W. D.W. 

“But that must have hurt,” he found himself saying out loud. “We used a knife, for crying out loud.” He was suddenly appalled at his own behavior towards the most beloved object in his life. “I swear, if we knew you were in there—”

“I don’t mind. Really. I kind of liked it.”

“Kinky son of a gun, aren’t you?” Dean muttered.

The Impala smiled, baring teeth that had been all too ready to sink into Dean earlier that morning. “If you say so.”

Dean coughed, trying to clear his mouth of an obstruction that was probably his own foot.

“It isn’t as if I’m capable of feeling literal pain. Or I wasn’t until today. The only sensation anything like it—and maybe it’s more like fear—is when something went really wrong. T-boned by a semi wrong,” the Impala added significantly. And then he held up a slender hand before Dean could say anything. “You’re not going to try apologizing for that, are you?”

“Sorry. I don’t normally apologize so much.”

The Impala looked at him in a way he must have learned from Sam. 

“Oh. Sor—damn it.”

“Maybe you never should have started.” And then he was moving again, lifting the windshield wipers, leaving faint streaks over the glass. Normally Dean would get on somebody’s back for that, but if it was his own windshield the Impala was streaking, maybe it wasn’t a human’s place to say anything. 

“I feel colder than I thought,” he remarked. He licked his lips. Then, “Anyway. Actually, I should thank you. For after the crash. You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“Of course I did. How easy do you think a ’67 Impala is to replace? –How easy do you think you are to replace?” Dean’s foot scuffed the ground in an aborted effort to kick himself. For the first time in his life he found himself wishing this would become more of a chick-flick moment, and less unintentionally offensive. Sam or Bobby might be able to see what they meant to him under his didn’t-give-a-damn exterior, but he wasn’t sure the Impala could. And he didn’t want Baby to ever think he was replaceable. 

He didn’t look offended at all. In fact, he was watching Dean over his roof with a shy smile.

Of course. He should know better than to assume that just because the dude was a car, he wouldn’t know how to speak Winchester like a native.

“So of course I rebuilt you,” he said. “Anyway, it’s not like this family is ever very good about letting each other die.”

“No,” the Impala said, that faint smile growing. “We always try to bring each other back, don’t we? Maybe I’ll return the favor sometime.”

He leaned against his metal body, not a casual lounge so much as a slump—whether that was because he still was new to Jimmy’s body and didn’t know how to work it, or because something was really wrong, Dean didn’t wait to find out. He was beside the Impala in a moment, grabbing his arm and shoulder to support him.

“It’s okay. I was just…” The Impala leaned against the car again, this time much more carefully. Supposed to be casual, then. But he seemed distracted, and his eyes wouldn’t quite meet Dean’s. “All day, I’ve been trying to find a word. A big one. Complicated. It made me happy, but it also might be sad. And I think I’ve found it.”

“What?”

“Alive,” the Impala whispered. “I’m alive.”

Dean leaned beside him, the line of the Impala’s roof cutting into his spine. “Alive. Yeah, I see how that’s sad.”

“You do?”

“Life. Crap happens. Usually to good people who don’t deserve it. And then it ends. Yeah, it is sad.”

“But good things happen, too.”

“Sometimes.” He glanced sidelong at the Impala, studying his profile. The streetlight gleamed over his black hair like the car’s chrome, striking orange dots like sparks off each. “Even when you have to thank the damn Trickster for them.”

The Impala laughed. Sometimes, when he laughed deep enough, Dean thought he could hear an engine purring. “What I really think, it’s that alive is only sad when it’s over. Which it isn’t…yet.” His chin tipped towards his shoulder, a gesture that looked confused and melancholy and oddly dignified all at once. “There was another word. I didn’t get to say it to you when I should have.”

“What’s that?”

“I just wanted to say…” He turned to face Dean then, drawing Jimmy’s body to its full height, azure eyes bright and meeting Dean’s proudly. “Hello, Dean Winchester. It’s very good to meet you.”

“Hello, Baby,” Dean said. He started to smile, but then they were closing the space between them, both at once, and when their lips met it was much, much better than that morning. Because now it wasn’t just some random cute guy—the thought slipped past Dean’s mental gatekeepers easily, since he was a little distracted at the moment—it was someone he’d known his entire life, not human maybe, but somebody he’d loved even with the first primitive glimmerings of the emotion. The Impala’s hands closed on the sides of his face, a little tightly perhaps but not enough that he’d complain, and angled him closer. 

For a former car with absolutely zilch experience, he was very talented. He also had some interesting tastes. By the time the kiss broke, Dean’s lower lip was swollen if not actually bleeding. And it was a very pleasant feeling. 

“Come on,” the Impala was murmuring, a hand on his sleeve pulling him towards…the backseat?

“You sure about this?” he found himself asking. Because Dean was sure, but compared to how strange the Impala’s experience of this night might turn out, sleeping with his car in said car’s own leather interior was positively vanilla. 

Then again, the dude was kinky.

“Believe me, this is something I’ve been very curious about,” the Impala said. 

Dean slid in after him. Despite the streetlight overhead, the interior was shadowed, and the road and parking lot outside were all but deserted. Privacy wouldn’t be a problem—once all the doors were closed.

The Impala followed his gaze and smiled. He snapped his fingers and the doors promptly shut. A moment later, the trunk locked with a heavy thud. 

“You can do that?” Dean asked.

“Apparently so.” Fingers hooked on his jacket collar drew Dean even closer. “Let’s see what else I can do.”

#

By the time they came back in the room, Sam was lying on one of the beds, out like a light. Looked like he had been for hours. The Impala glanced down at him fondly before throwing himself onto the second bed. He slid over just enough to allow Dean to lay down beside him.

“This will be interesting,” the Impala said. “Falling asleep. Never done it before.”

“Did you take notes when you watched me?”

“No. I assumed it…comes naturally.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “It does. Relax, dude. Actually, you should—that’s step one.”

The Impala’s face was an inch from his on the pillow. Dean could feel his breath on his cheek when he spoke. “How far away is nine-thirty?”

With his guts tying in knots, Dean glanced at the bedside clock. “About eight hours.”

“Do you think I’ll wake up before then?”

He swallowed and said a little sharply, “You’ll wake up sooner the sooner you go to sleep.”

“But if I don’t…this might be it.”

Dean turned to him and slipped an arm around the Impala’s shoulder unthinkingly. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m trying not to.” A hand slipped into his, damp but warm, and he gripped it back. Dean wouldn’t blame anybody for sweaty palms at a time like this. Damn the Trickster, was it too much to ask that he could warn a guy what was going to happen to him? Did he ever consider that his creations might have thoughts, feelings? What was going to happen? 

“Hey, Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t, um…try not to drool on my face, okay?”

“I’ll try not to,” he promised. Then he added, “even if it is a face worth drooling over.”

“You’re so sweet to me.” Hard to say if that was sarcasm, from that inexperience, sleep-heavy mouth. 

“Don’t feel scared,” Dean found himself saying. “You’re with me.”

“Yeah. Always have been…always will be.”

“Exactly.”

Silence, then, except for three sets of increasingly deep breathing, and every so often the hum of a car on the road.

#

Sometime during the night, Dean and Jimmy Novak’s bodies had wound up on far opposite sides of the bed—perhaps the Impala was a restless sleeper—and it turned out that was for the best.

Dean felt instant, deep, smarting sympathy for Amelia Novak the moment her husband opened his eyes. There was nothing quite like waking up with someone entirely different than the one you went to sleep beside.

At least he knew what had happened, and why.

“You’re okay, man,” he told Jimmy. “Had a bit of a wild day yesterday. But everything’s cool now. Um, sorry about the sleeping arrangements, there were only two beds…” 

Jimmy sat up, then moved his feet towards the floor by slow inches, as if expecting something to rise up from under the bed and chomp them at any moment. “Wild day? Yeah…I guess.” He laughed a little hysterically.

“Wait and I’ll get you a cup of coffee.” Dean went to the room’s coffee maker and fumbled with the packets, staring at decaf and regular as if the words no longer meant anything. He brought Jimmy a cup, but didn’t feel like putting anything in his stomach just yet. He didn’t think it would make it past whatever was happening in his throat.

“So what do you remember of yesterday?” he asked Jimmy after a few sips had brought more color to the man’s face. 

“It was really, really weird.” Jimmy put the cup down and ran over his head, as if trying to rub out memories. “I must have been dreaming. Or hallucinating, or something. Maybe it was a trip. I’m usually, uh, pretty straight-laced, I don’t know what one would be like. But there’s this show I like.” He darted a glance at Dean as if expecting to see judgment there. “Kind of silly, maybe. But I dreamed I was in it. Not on set or something. In it. Like one of the characters.”

“That is pretty weird,” Dean said evenly.

“But it was cool, too. If you like that sort of thing. And the funny part is—it was like I was in future shows. Got to see the resolution of some plot arcs and things. Never had a dream like that in my life.”

“The world’s a very weird place,” Dean said, all the wisdom he felt capable of dispensing this morning. Maybe Jimmy would one day find out just how weird. For the guy’s sake, Dean sincerely hoped not.

“I wonder what my wife will think. I wonder if I should tell her. See, she’s the one who started me watching the show…”

“I think your wife will just be glad to see you home.” Dean walked Jimmy to the door. “Go get her, tiger.”

As the man stepped out, Dean thought to ask, “So what was the show?”

“Oh.” Jimmy looked down at his shoes. “Just this…show. It’s called Doctor…”

Dean nodded encouragingly.

“Doctor Sexy, M.D,” Jimmy Novak said.

“Oh. Good show.”

Jimmy clearly suspected Dean was mocking him, but he wasn’t going to make an issue of it this morning. He started walking across the parking lot, towards the road. 

“Really good show,” Dean muttered. There, beneath a streetlight, black chrome gleamed in morning sunshine. He waited a moment, catching his breath as if he’d just run miles. Then he went to the Impala.

“Good morning, Baby,” he said, running a hand over the front door. He pulled it open and slid inside, put the key in the ignition. Here goes nothing he thought, and turned it.

The engine growled.

The light gleaming off the hood was getting in Dean’s eyes, making them sting. “Hello, Baby.”

“Hello, Dean,” the radio said.

Nursing the bump on his head from the ceiling of the car, Dean stared at the speaker grille. “What the hell?”

“Tricksters can create anything,” the radio chirped, as if he’d tuned to some informational show. “And usually they unmake it just as easily, cleaning up after themselves, leaving no trail. But some things, once created, don’t go away easily. Like souls.” Static crackled, sounding oddly like laughter. “It makes sense, I suppose. I might have been created yesterday, but my memories and…presence seem to go back to 1967. It makes sense that they’d go on through today and tomorrow, too.”

“And the day after that?” Dean said hopefully.

“Forever, maybe. As long as I’m in one piece.”

“Forever, then. You know how I am about keeping you in one piece.”

The static laughed louder. Then, in an almost apologetic tone—the Impala’s voice sounded a bit like Jimmy Novak’s, Dean realized, except a little throatier, as if it were produced by a three hundred horse power engine—it continued, “I didn’t know this would happen. That I’d ever be able to speak to you again. So yesterday, I just said everything I wanted to…thus a lot of chick-flick moments. It’s kind of ironic. Now we can talk anytime. So…I guess I can shut up now.”

Dean smiled, then bent to plant a kiss on the rim of the steering wheel. In return, the radio began playing Led Zeppelin’s Ramble On. 

Leaves are falling all around,  
Its time I was on my way.  
Thanks to you, I’m much obliged  
For such a pleasant stay.

#

“There’s one thing that still bothers me,” Dean told Sam twenty miles later.

“Just one? Okay, shoot.”

“The Trickster claimed he was hanging out in the pool of that…TARDIS-thing.”

“And?”

“It looked pretty tiny to fit a pool in.”

“Oh.” Sam looked out the window, not quickly enough to hide a smirk. “Dean, the TARDIS is bigger on the inside.”

“That’s a damn weird show.”

“Sure. Anyway, did you read the papers this morning? About that clown in Maine—think it looks like one of our jobs?”

Miles of road passed by beneath them.

-end-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coda: Lines adapted from The Doctor’s Wife that I couldn’t fit into this fic, but couldn’t bear to leave by the roadside:
> 
> "FBI."
> 
> "Hello, Pretty!"
> 
> "What the hell is this?"
> 
> "Relax. It's me, Dean. And a…friend. –And that's Bobby."
> 
> "Okay, look. You have to go to the panic room! We don't have time to explain."
> 
> "The pretty one?"
> 
> "Why the tone of surprise, idjit?" 
> 
> (You know it'll happen)


End file.
